


Phantom Touch

by messageredacted



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally's different. She hears things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for thegameison_sh prompt: Phantom Touch
> 
> Originally written on 1 September 2011.

The corpse is a young looking girl in a blue dress, sprawled in the bathroom of a restaurant. Her brown hair flares around her head in a halo, wicking up water and blood from the puddles on the floor.

 _Amanda_ , says the corpse. _My name is Amanda._

Sally seals the murder weapon into an evidence bag. The corpse’s grieving mother already identified her daughter, so the name doesn’t really help, does it? Maybe if the corpse could tell her a different name—say, the name of the murderer—that would be far more useful to everyone involved.

 _I was going to turn seventeen next week_ , says the corpse.

Anderson is analysing blood drops on the far wall and doesn’t give any indication that he can hear the corpse telling him about her life, but Sally isn’t surprised, because it’s always like that. Sally’s different. She hears things.

Nothing useful, though.

 _I wanted concert tickets for my birthday. I wonder if my mother bought them. I hope she didn’t, now. It would have been a waste._

Sally doesn’t care about the birthday or the concert or the name. She doesn’t want to know any of this, because she can hear Holmes coming up the stairs, already haranguing someone about something and she really fucking wishes she could come up with a clue that he can’t see, something to show that yes, the long hours and the hard work and the harassment that she has put up with for years were worth it because she’s just as good at her fucking job as the sociopath who sweeps in and solves the crime on a lark. But no, she can’t, because all the fucking corpse wants to talk about is her _fucking birthday present._

 _Don’t call me a corpse. I said my name was Amanda._

Fine. Amanda. Amanda was bludgeoned to death with a wine bottle, which still has bits of her hair stuck to the glass. The bottle was full, which meant that when it hit her, her skull broke first.

Holmes comes into the room in his ridiculous coat, with Watson close behind. Lestrade intercepts them, although Sally has long given up hope that Lestrade will actually hold firm and make them leave. Only a moment later, Lestrade is shooing everyone out of the room so his majesty can have some quality time alone with the c—with Amanda. Sally loiters outside the door, listening to Holmes start his deduction.

“The murderer can’t have been tall—see, anyone over six feet would have brushed against this as they entered the room—”

 _I don’t know what my mother will do with herself now that I’m dead,_ Amanda says. _I hope she’s okay. I hope she knows I loved her._

Sally doesn’t need this. She doesn’t know where this ability came from, listening to the dead, but it’s always plagued her. She doesn’t want to know about their lives. She wants to know about their deaths, so she can help them. But the dead never want to talk about their deaths. Instead they just give her details that clutter up her thoughts, make her feel terrible. Sally is certain that Holmes won’t be haunted by thoughts of Amanda’s mother tonight, spending her first night alone without her daughter. But Sally is going to be up half the night, debating whether to call her own mother and tell her she loves her.

Sometimes, although she would never admit it, Sally wishes she were more like Holmes. He doesn’t care about the personal details of the lives of the victims unless they mean something to the case. He wouldn’t get upset if a murder victim told him that they wished they could have seen their children grow up, or complained that they had only just met the love of their life and wanted more time. Holmes doesn't let humanity get in his way. That’s what makes him a good detective. But maybe it doesn't make him a good _person._

Sometimes Sally wishes she could find a way to be both.

Holmes comes out of the bathroom like a bloodhound on a scent. Lestrade shouts a question out at him, hurrying to catch up.

“Just look at the body. Look at her elbows,” Holmes calls back to him impatiently.

“Her name is Amanda,” Sally says out loud. Holmes doesn’t pay any attention to her, already out the door of the restaurant. Lestrade shoots her a strange look and then wearily beckons her back inside to finish doing her job.


End file.
